7 August 1881

Sun was streaming through the porthole when Dr. Bell, rather more roughly than necessary, shook me awake. I had a pounding headache and my stomach was queasy, although the ship was hardly rolling.

“Laddie, you can’t sleep all day. Up, up. Time for breakfast.”

I rolled out of the bunk, dressed, and made it to the nearly-empty dining room. I did not have much appetite, but after several cups of tea, I managed to put away a rasher of bacon, several fried eggs, and toast with marmalade.

A short nap was in order, but when I returned to our cabin, the stunning young lady who smelled of orange blossoms was there, sitting with crossed legs on a comfortable chair. She wore a tight-fitting purple dress with a bit of lace around her neck. As she swung her foot back and forth, I could not take my eyes away from her elegant lower leg and slender ankle. She opened a large purse and withdrew a yellow, tin box marked ‘Kyriazi Freres’ and selected a cigarette.

I was taken aback at her behavior, and Dr. Bell pursed his lips with disapproval. She held the cigarette to her lips between her index and middle fingers and smiled. “Well...” she said. I fumbled for a lucifer and lit her cigarette. She drew in a lungful of smoke, expelled the cloud through her perfect nostrils, and turned her luminous eyes on Dr. Bell.

“Colonel Sir Cameron Beachy-Edwards informed me that you attended Declan Foley when he was fatally injured. I am anxious to learn about his last moments and what, if anything, he found at Hutton’s quarry. What were his last words?” she asked.

“What was your relationship with Lt. Foley?” Dr. Bell asked.

“Lieutenant Foley was my husband.”

Jings! I could hardly believe it. Last night, I had been kissing - my ‘aunt’?!!

Dr. Bell raised an eyebrow, “Aye, and you are?”

“Penelope Walshingham of the Norfolk Walshinghams. My father is the fourth Earl of Leicester. I was one of the few women to study at Cambridge.” She paused to dab her eyes, sniffed, and went on. “Lieutenant Declan was the only man who showed me kindness. My parents disapproved of his lowly birth, but I am a free thinker and we wed in secret a few weeks before his death.”

She gave no sign that we had met - not only met, but feverishly kissed one another - the night before. I was stunned.

How could this elegant, sophisticated lady have been married to Uncle Declan? I remembered his great beard, his face ravaged by scars and suffering. How could she have been drawn to him? Aye, she said that he showed her kindness, but none of it seemed to make sense.

I have to admit, this mystery only added to her allure. I felt as if I was being drawn into a whirlpool of emotion and, well, lust, if not love. It made no difference that this stunning creature was actually my relative through marriage. Now that Uncle Declan was dead, she would need someone to take care of her and I most certainly could be the one. Uncle Declan... I had no idea that he had remained alive the last couple of years, never mind taken on a bride.

I could hold my tongue no longer. “Excuse me, Miss Walshingham, or should I call you Mrs. Foley?” I asked.

“Since our marriage was secret, and seeing that he is no longer alive, I prefer to be referred to as Miss Walshingham.”

“Aye, then answer me this, ma’am. When did Declan decide to take a bride?”

She glared and tossed her head. “Dear child, that is none of your business.”

“Oh, but it is my business,” I answered, angry that she had referred to me as a child. “I am Arthur Conan Doyle. My mother is Mary Foley and Declan was our relative.”

“Oh my! Declan never spoke of any family. It is only recently that I discovered his real name was Declan Foley. Please, give a poor widow a moment.” She began sobbing and removed a lorgnette from her bosom, placed it on her delicate nose, and looked me up and down. She gave no sign that she remembered our ardent embrace only a few hours before.

She finally stopped weeping. “How are you associated with Dr. Bell?” she asked.

Dr. Bell answered for me. “Mr. Doyle is a recent graduate of the Edinburgh University Medical School, as well as my assistant.”

“I see. And my dearly departed was your relative.”

“Well, aye... I called him ‘uncle.’”

“So, you, like me, must also be devastated by his loss.”

“Aye, and I will do everything in my power to assist you in ensuring his murderer is brought to justice.”

“Good. Please, tell me about his last moments.”

I told her everything and remembered his final words, “A tsar will die.”

“Ah, poor Declan was horribly abused by the Russians during the war but didn’t blame the people. He vowed vengeance on the tsar and his foul government.”

With that, she tossed her head and ground out the cigarette in an empty teacup. I was torn between a desire to take her in my arms and a yearning to slap her for her appalling behavior. Abruptly, tears drizzled down her lovely cheeks again.

I couldn’t help it. In that moment, I was overcome for sympathy for her. What I would’ve given in that moment to kiss away those dear droplets.

And then, I thought - is it appropriate to have feelings for the woman who was my ‘aunt’? Or at least had been my aunt until Uncle Declan was killed...?

At that moment, there was a knock. I leaped from my chair and opened the door. The first officer saluted rather stiffly. “Dr. Bell, Captain Veery requests your assistance. A passenger has died,” he said.

The stateroom of the deceased was a few doors away from our own and not far from where Penelope had so pleasantly accosted me a few hours ago. We crowded into the room. Surprisingly, Penelope followed us. The captain and the ship’s doctor, a middle-aged gentleman, were staring glumly at the corpse. The dead man, stretched on his back across the bed, had silvery-grey hair, was fully dressed, and appeared to be about sixty years of age. “This is all that remains of Lord Asquith,” said the captain.

Asquith’s fine features and neatly trimmed mustache marked him as definitely upper-class. The first officer swished at a common housefly twitching its wings on the man’s upper lip and was about to close the man’s eyes.

“Please, don’t touch a thing,” Dr. Bell warned, rather sharply.

The officer shrank away from the corpse and wiped his lips with a white handkerchief.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “It’s like he is staring right at us.”

“Doyle, can you make a diagnosis?” Dr. Bell asked.

“It appears as if Lord Asquith has suffered a sudden heart attack or a lethal brain hemorrhage.”

“Yes, that is what we are supposed to believe. But look carefully. His fingernails and skin are dead white, as if he lost a great deal of blood.”

“But, there are no signs of blood loss, lacerations, or bleeding.” I said.

Dr. Bell put a hand on the body. “He has been dead for no more than six hours.”

“If it wasn’t a natural death, then what?” asked first officer.

“I can’t say as of yet.”

The Professor ran his fingers through the corpse’s hair, peered into his eyes, nose, and ears, gently pulled down the lower lip, and sniffed at the mouth. “He smoked Cuban cigars.” Bell examined the hands and fingernails and, with some difficulty, opened the left, clenched fist. He minutely examined the fingers and nails with a small magnifying glass.

“There are no signs that he fought an assailant.” He then directed us to remove clothing from the corpse and, much to my great surprise, inspected the abdomen and thumped the chest as if examining the lungs of a live patient.

“Ah, dull to percussion. There is blood or fluid in his left chest. Turn him over, very carefully, so his left side is up, please.”

He adjusted the light and, with his hand lens, minutely observed every inch of the chest. “Ah... Here it is.”

He had discovered a tiny wound, just lateral to the vertebrae, that was hardly larger than a needle prick.

“Oh, please, that little pin prick could not possibly have killed the man,” the captain said.

“Death was due to a slow, but massive, hemorrhage into his thoracic cavity from a small wound in his aorta, the largest blood vessel in the body. I would wager that the weapon was a slender needle or even a hat pin. I trust that an autopsy will prove me correct. Only a highly trained assassin would know exactly where to insert his weapon in order to fatally penetrate the thoracic aorta,” Dr. Bell said.

The ship’s medical officer spoke. “We don’t have the facilities for a proper autopsy.”

“I will not disturb the passengers,” Captain Veery said.

“Sir, you have a murderer on board your ship. We need every bit of information possible in order to find the man.”

Dr. Bell stooped and commenced a minute examination of the floor and the furniture, then went into the adjacent bathroom. There, he sniffed the air like a bloodhound on a scent.

“Doyle, now is a grand opportunity for you to use your keen, young senses. Please identify that odor.”

I inhaled a nose full of air and sensed, first, a lingering odor of brandy, cigar smoke, and something else, something rather sweet that I could not name.

“Brandy and cigar smoke,” I said. “And something else, but I can’t seem to put my finger on it.”

“Very good. Asquith drank a quantity of brandy after dinner and then he smoked at least one Cuban cigar. There is something more ...” He sniffed again, Papaver somniferum, better known as opium.”

“Opium is in so many common medicines that it probably means nothing,” said I.

“Laddie, it means that either Asquith or his assailant used opium, perhaps combined with tobacco,” Dr. Bell said.

It was not my place to argue with the professor, but the faint odor reminded me of a long distant pleasant memory. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I knew that it was certainly not opium. Bell paced back and forth for several minutes, hands clenched behind his back, with his eyes darting around the room from the corpse to the floor to the walls.

“Here is what took place... The murderer waited for Asquith, knowing that he had consumed a quantity of alcohol. He was in this room, perhaps crouched beside the bed or in the bathroom. He waited until Lord Asquith turned his back and then inserted the weapon. Asquith would have ignored the faint pinprick and slowly bled to death over the course of several hours.”

“Ahem.” Captain Veery cleared his throat for attention. “How ridiculous. Mere speculation,” he spluttered.

“I think not! An autopsy will prove that I am quite correct. Asquith was a British citizen and his murderer is on this ship,” said Dr. Bell.

“Damn your impertinence, Dr. Bell! I will have none of this. My master-at-arms will investigate. There will be no autopsy, and the body will be handed over to the British Consulate when we dock in Copenhagen!” shouted the captain.

“Nay, sir. By then, the body may be decomposed and the murderer will escape. Doyle, fetch my instrument case and ask Mr. Tatum to join us, if you please.”

Tatum and I arrived at Asquith’s room the same time as the chief master-at-arms, the ship’s police officer.

Dr. Bell unlatched the case, slid out a separate compartment, and removed a revolver. “Mr. Tatum, I presume you know how to use a Webley .455.”

“Yes, sir, that I do.” Tatum admired the well-oiled, gleaming weapon and checked to see that the cylinder was loaded with bullets.

“Mr. Tatum, use force, if necessary. The ship’s officers are to line up against the far wall and witness my findings.”

Tatum thrust out his chest and sucked in his belly. “Over there, lads. As the Dr. ordered. Against the wall!” he boomed, in a voice suitable for the drill field.

The master-at-arms clenched his fists and growled. “No damn lackey gives orders to my captain!”

With a calloused thumb, Mr. Tatum pulled back the pistol’s hammer and aimed at the master-at-arms. The captain’s face was violaceous, and an artery throbbed at his forehead. “Obey the man,” he said. The ship’s officers formed a ragged line with their backs to the wall.

Bell then took command of the room. “Gentlemen, what you are about to witness is not for the faint-hearted; I urge all of you to pay the utmost of attention. Mr. Doyle, my scalpel, forceps, and scissors. Oh, and please fetch a stack of towels.”

I did as he asked. Then, with a few deft strokes of the knife, the professor sliced through the chest wall and cut away the anterior portion of a half-dozen ribs, opening the left chest. “A-hah! There, gentlemen - the left thoracic cavity is filled with blood and clots.”

“My word!” the ship’s doctor gasped.

The first officer wilted into an unconscious heap on the floor.

I was feeling a bit queasy. “Mop the blood, Mr. Doyle. Make yourself useful,” Dr. Bell said in a slightly mocking voice.

I clenched my teeth, held my tongue, and did as I was told. Dr. Bell assumed his accustomed role as a medical school professor. “Now, gentlemen, please, one at a time observe the thoracic aorta, the largest blood vessel in the body. It courses from top to bottom of the chest cavity. The hole was in the upper portion, where the aorta hugs the thoracic vertebra. The defect, at first, was no larger than a pinhole, but just as the flow of water enlarges a small leak in a dike, cardiac contractions forced more and more blood to enlarge the pinhole. Gentlemen, this is a case of cold-blooded murder. The perpetrator is a skilled assassin with a good knowledge of human anatomy,” said Dr. Bell.

“Confound it! Our passengers will not stand for interrogations,” Captain Veery said.

“Perhaps, that won’t be necessary. Please allow me to see your passenger list.”

“Come to my cabin within the hour,” the captain replied.

Without thinking, I blurted out a statement of confession. “Sir, I was with Miss Walshingham, just outside this stateroom late last night. Two men were not far away.”

“Eh, what is that you say?” the captain asked. I repeated my statement, adding that Miss Walshingham was on the deck prior to my arrival.

The captain was annoyed and simply dismissed my comment. “Humph. Coincidence, nothing but coincidence,” he said.

Mr. Tatum, with elaborate courtesy, turned to Penelope and offered her the crook of his arm. “Miss Walshingham, please join us for tea.” We returned to our stateroom. Dr. Bell rang for tea.

“Miss Walshingham, what is your role in this affair?” he rather pleasantly asked.

My dear Penelope rolled her eyes, and large tears coursed down her cheeks.

“I am not at liberty to discuss the matter.”

“Were you having a romantic liaison with Asquith?”

“Of course not. I scarcely knew him. And, ahem, sir, I am a grieving widow.”

“Then why were you outside his room at about the time of his death? Perhaps you stuck him with a hat pin in a moment of passion.”

Her eyes blazed, hot with anger. “Damn you! I am a courier for Naval Intelligence and had a message for Lord Asquith. My instructions were to deliver a letter to him on our first night at sea. The entertainment went on so long I didn’t go to his stateroom until nearly three o’clock in the morning.”

“Aye, so you say,” Dr. Bell said. “Did you enter the room?”

Penelope selected a cigarette from the tin box. I leaped up with a fresh lucifer and lit the cigarette. She exhaled a cloud of smoke before speaking. “The door was ajar. I entered, but he was reclining on the bed, sound asleep. I did not disturb him and turned to leave, only to be accosted by... him.” She jerked her hand towards me.

Damn, I thought, is this an act? Her entire performance only added to her air of mystery and my desire.

“The message, please,” Dr. Bell said. She hesitated, but Mr. Tatum prodded her with a sharp look. She removed a pale blue, unmarked envelope, sealed with a blob of red wax from her handbag.

The professor slit open the envelope with a penknife and unfolded a sheet of heavy, blue paper.

Dear Percy,

I am praying that you have a pleasant and rewarding journey to St. Petersburg.

Give my fondest regards to Alexi.

Sincerely,

A.V.

Penelope was so close to me that, as we read the letter over Dr. Bell’s shoulder, I thought I distinctly felt her pressing into my side. Sadly though, she took no notice of me and, instead, stared at the letter with intense interest.

Dr. Bell frowned, lit his pipe, and puffed clouds of smoke while carefully perusing the letter.

“Note the strong downward strokes of a modern fountain pen. A small blob of ink escaped when she dotted the “i” in rewarding. Alexi must be the new tsar, Alexander the third.

“Who is A.V.? I asked.

“Doyle, you should be ashamed of yourself to ask such a thing,” Dr. Bell said.

“Why? What does it stand for?”

“The Queen used the name Alexandria Victoria before her coronation,” Penelope said. “How could you call yourself a Scot and not recognize the initials of our Queen?”

“There must be more.” Bell held the paper up to the porthole. “Ah-ha, look at this.” Faint marks became visible as he moved the page in the sunlight.

“I do believe there is an additional message,” Dr. Bell said. He struck another lucifer and held the flame beneath the letter. Nothing appeared.

“Some forms of invisible ink require a chemical to become visible. I will wager the chemical is in Lord Asquith’s cabin.”

“The captain has sealed Asquith’s room.” Penelope said.

“There are alternative ways into a room,” said Dr. Bell, as he selected a delicate chisel from his instrument case. “Aye, this will do nicely.”

Penelope and I shielded the doctor as he inserted the thin metal between the door and casing. There was a faint click, and he was in the room, leaving us on guard. I was glad that, once again, we were alone together, and I reached out for Penelope’s hand. “We must provide a distraction. Shall we re-enact last night’s dalliance?” I whispered to her.

“I say - you’re cheeky, but I like that. That’s the Foley in you.” Penelope leaned against the door, clutched me to her bosom, and planted her lovely lips on mine. She may have been play-acting, but I passionately returned her embrace and kisses.

Suddenly, there were footsteps on the deck, and through a half-opened eye, I made out a couple who hurried past while averting their gaze. In hardly any time at all, certainly not long enough to satisfy my hot-blooded, rampant lust, Dr. Bell appeared at the threshold of the door.

Penelope pushed me away and smacked my face with her opened hand. “How dare you!” she said.

“My heavens!” Dr. Bell blushed. “What has gotten into you, laddie? She’s your bloody aunt!” He shook his head as if reprimanding a child.

Before I could explain, he held up a small bottle labeled ‘tincture of iodine.’ “It was in his shaving kit,” he said.

Back in our room, Dr. Bell poured a few drops of the iodine on a bit of cloth and gently swabbed the letter.

ODQB C RSNOY ZKDBW LTRS MATO VHKKHD HR LHRBGOUHNUR VHKK AD SQNTAKD

Penelope snatched the letter. “This is my responsibility.”

“Not unless you can break the cipher,” Bell said as he pulled it back from her.

“Damn you! Give it to me!” she shouted.

Tatum’s big hand closed on her wrist. “Leave it be, Miss. Your only job was to deliver the message.”

Penelope’s face hardened. “You are hurting me.” Tatum released her.

“The letter is useless unless we break the code. Dr. Bell has assisted the Secret Service in other cases. I suggest we leave the letter with him and get on to the captain’s cabin.”

“I am going with you,” Penelope said.

“The letter can wait. I, too, will attend to the Captain,” said Bell.

The captain’s quarters were richly furnished with teak chairs, a desk, and a table. A Persian carpet and paintings of maritime scenes completed the picture of a man at the peak of his career in command of the greatest passenger ship ever launched.

I felt decidedly out of place. The chief master-at-arms and Billy, the handsome, horn-piping sailor, put the passenger manifest at our disposal. Most were American citizens, Swedes, Norwegians, Poles, and a Finn or two returning to visit their homeland.

Bell paused, his finger on the name of a lone Japanese passenger. “The Japanese have plans to annex Russian territory and would be more likely to assassinate the tsar than a British diplomat.” There were a large group of American names, including the engineer, Adam Gritz. “Doyle, use your charm to mix with the other passengers and learn more about the Americans. Some of them still hate Britain.”

I jotted down a list of names. “Right, sir.”

Bell paused over a name. “Is Count Carl von Wittenberg - a Prussian?”

Penelope blushed. “He is from Berlin - a naval architect and great friend of Wilhelm II.”

“Wilhelm II will be the next emperor of Germany. The man hates both England and Russia,” Bell said.

“He is the grandson of Queen Victoria,” Penelope said.

“True, but his father, Frederick is ill, possibly with cancer. Wilhelm will ascend to the throne within a decade. He blames the English for his deformed arm and the woman he loved has married a Russian prince.”

Bell paused and stared at the captain. “So much for the passengers. What about your crew?”

“My men are the finest sailors in the world, Americans and Danes, one or two Norwegians. They are above reproach.”

“Doyle, if you please, socialize with the passengers. See what you can learn and later meet me for tea,” Bell said.

I sunk ankle-deep into a lush Persian carpet in the lounge and gazed with wonder at oil paintings and the array of bottles in front of a mirror behind the bar. The lounge was an elegant enough place to commence my investigations.

I nursed a pint of ale while listening to jovial American doctors discussing their plans for study in Vienna and Berlin. They were above suspicion, but another group of Americans, clustered about a table and talking in low tones, aroused my interest.

I moved to an empty chair and heard only snatches of their conversation, which was mainly about the shooting of President Garfield. They had, it seemed, served under Garfield while he was an officer in the union army and were on a commission to improve the U.S. Navy. Their destination was Germany. There seemed to be no reason to suspect their involvement in Asquith’s murder.

I was about to leave when a tall, stringy fellow with a long, pointy mustache, wearing high leather boots and a large brimmed cowboy hat, jostled my arm, spilling a bit of my ale. He laughed. “Pardon me, partna.’ This damn ship rocks worse than a painted pinto being gelded.” He held out his hand. “Howdy. Cowboy Bill, at your service.”

He already had a few too many ales, but he was friendly enough. I’d met my fair share of eccentric characters in America and I’d always enjoyed their company. I figured it was worth befriending this gregarious bloke and hearing what he had to say. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Bill. Let me guess - you’re an American.”

“Yessir! Born in West Virginia and, as of late, a resident of the great lone star state of Texas. Yee ha!”

I loved his energy and couldn’t resist bragging a bit about my time in America, “Have you ever heard of the notorious James Gang?”

“Hell yeah! Those damn bastards wanted me to partner up with them and be in their gang.” With my mate, Carl, I’d escaped near-death by that gang when Dr. Bell and I were in America. So, although I wasn’t exactly sure how much was true and how much was the ale speaking, I decided to let him keep talking. “You see, back way yonder, when I was merely a stripling poking cows, them boys wanted me to help wrangle a few thousand head of steer, but I plum refused. Where’d you say you’re from?” the American asked.

“I’m from Scotland. The name’s Doyle, Arthur Doyle.”

“Well, Artie, good to meet ya. Most of you limeys are usually too snooty to shoot the breeze with old Cowboy Bill, but you seem to be cut of a different cloth - maybe a Scottish tartan, eh?”

“Bill, what brings you on board this vessel?”

“I shouldn’t tell you this, but you seem like a good hombre and so I’ll spill the beans.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’ll be damned if I ain’t bringin’ a whole cage full of Texas rattlesnakes to them hifulatin’ Russkies.”

“What?” I whispered.

He spoke louder. “You got cotton in your ears, boy? I got me a whole mess of rattlers in my quarters. Lassoed them critters behind the head and stuffed ’em in a feed sack. If you see any mice on board, tell me, since those critters will soon be needing some vittles.”

“Why do the Russians want rattlesnakes?”

“I was told they’re gonna be used for medical ’speriments. I don’t really care as long as they pay... Now don’t mean to be rude, but rumor has it that there are some poker games and dancing painted ladies below deck, so I’ll be seeing you around.” And with that, he was off...

I surveyed the other passengers, who seemed totally innocent, and departed from the lounge. Once I got out on the deck, the ship was in the Channel crashing against heavy seas and a north wind. I struggled on the pitching vessel to reach our stateroom, when, just ahead, a fellow who had been leaning against the guard rail fell to the deck.

I grabbed his coat just in time to prevent him from rolling into the sea. His legs beat up and down on the deck and his jaws were so tightly clenched, he was scarcely breathing. He looked to be around sixty years old.

I had seen the same symptoms of epilepsy in my father and immediately wrapped my fingers in a handkerchief. His jaws were tightly clenched, but with difficulty, I forced his mouth open. He took in a great deep breath.

Soon after, he relaxed but was confused. He was small and fragile as a chipmunk with a high, bald forehead and a great, black beard. I helped him to his feet. “Come to the lounge. You could use a tot of brandy,” I said.

“Brandy, no. Vodka, yes.” he said.

After downing half a glass of the clear, fiery liquor, he offered his hand and spoke a decent English with a strong Russian accent. “Bah. Damn London doctors could not cure my illness. Who are you, boy?”

“Arthur Doyle.”

“Dobry den. I am Fyodor... Fyodor Dostoevsky.”

“The great author?”

“Hah, yes, I have heard of that man. He’s not so great these days... These days, the mediocre Dostoevsky is only great at one thing - drinking.”

“And when you aren’t drinking?”

“I gamble.”

“And when you aren’t gambling?”

“I write drivel to pay for my drinking and gambling.”

“I would give up medicine if I could write drivel as well as you.”

He lit a cigarette and coughed up a gob of phlegm. “Writing’s a fool’s folly. I would’ve been better off if I never put pen to paper. It only leads to poverty, suffering and prison,” he said.

“Maybe so. But, still, I’d like to try my hand at it one day. At university, our French professor had us read French translations of your dark and brooding stories. They are brilliant psychological tales. All about suffering...”

“Suffering is the key to our redemption. And redemption is nigh impossible. So, in the end, life is a folly, and it is only through drink that one might find momentary escape.”

“Well then, sir, may I buy you another drink?”

“No, it is my turn. You saved me from falling into the sea. Tonight, be my guest on the steerage deck for vodka, discussion, and entertainment. And then, we shall see if you are truly cut out for the life of an author.”

With that, Dostoevsky left and I made my way to Bell’s stateroom. After the ale and vodka, and with the ship’s erratic movement, I could hardly wobble. I gratefully sunk into an armchair, accepted a cup of tea, and reported my observations of the passengers. Penelope was sitting primly as a nun with pinched lips and a cold, fixed expression on her darling face.

Dr. Bell listened to my recital of the passengers with his chin resting on his hand.

“None of them sound like a killer. Meanwhile, I’ve made progress. The cipher is a simple transposition of letters.”

Percy, stop D. Alex must live. Willie is mischievous and will cause trouble.

“We believe the Queen chose Asquith to protect Alexander III from a secret assassin,” Mr. Tatum said.

“Wait, who is Willie?” I asked.

“The very same Wilhelm of Germany we discussed earlier.”

“Then, who is D?”

“David.” It was a soft, almost involuntary, answer. “Poor, poor David.” Penelope wiped her tears and turned away.

Dr. Bell put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “There, there, lassie...”

“Who is David?” I asked.

She cleared her throat. “Captain David Campbell was my husband’s best friend. After they escaped from the Russians, they found their way to a field hospital in Kabul. My husband recovered from his injuries and, after resigning his commission, bounced around Eastern Europe before going to Cambridge for geology. They say David was a brilliant linguist and a student of the Russian people but never regained his health. In his delirium, he vowed to kill the tsar.”

Penelope paused to sip tea. “Captain David Campbell escaped from the hospital and disappeared. He is thought to be somewhere in Russia,” she said, in a flat, dead voice.

“If Campbell kills Tsar Alexander III, there will be a major war between England and Russia. The Queen’s intelligence agents must know of his intentions and sent Asquith to prevent a murder and international conflict.” Mr. Tatum paced the room and continued talking. “He has had time to reach St. Petersburg. It is up to us to stop him. In the years ahead, England needs Russia as an ally.”

“We still don’t know who killed Lord Asquith. Who would have the most to gain by the tsar’s assassination? Doyle, do you suspect any of the Americans?”

“An American at dinner swore revenge on the Russians for killing their president but seemed to be a harmless drunk. I don’t trust that Count von Wittenberg.”

“Penelope, tell us more about this German fellow.”

Was it accidental? On purpose? Penelope spilled her tea and then rubbed the dark stain on her dress. “I hardly know him. He is just a casual acquaintance.”

Dr. Bell sat up straighter and fiddled with his pipe. “He is German and probably an enemy of Russia. Surely, Miss Walshingham, you can learn more.”

“We should also consider the Russian students in steerage. I have made a new friend who invited me to a party,” I said.

“Good. Do look in on them this evening.”

An hour later, Penelope and I met Dostoevsky. He was still pale and walked with a stumbling, feeble gait. I held his arm as we descended stairs into the depths of the ship. The air grew dank with the smell of cooking and unwashed bodies in the crowded steerage compartment. At the lowest level, we entered a cramped, ill-lit room. A dozen plainly dressed men and women, all about my age, were smoking and drinking. As we entered, their animated conversation stopped and hostile faces turned our way.

Dostoevsky gestured toward us. “Mes amis.”

I felt suspicion mingled with curiosity, despite Dostoevsky’s introduction. The hostility broke when, to my great surprise, Penelope rattled off what must have been a joke, in Russian. They laughed and offered drinks. She went off with three men to a table in the corner. They greeted her with what seemed an easy familiarity. Could they have been students at Cambridge? It didn’t seem likely.

“They are elitists, radical students who have studied with Marx in London and want to overthrow the tsar,” Dostoevsky whispered.

Perhaps, it was my Irish half that hated authority, but I sympathized with the students. As I looked around the group, I was drawn to a buxom young woman with a long braid of blonde hair that hung down over her back. She caught my eye and smiled. “I am Vera Nayechev,” she said, in good English.

I took her hand. “Dr. Arthur Conan Doyle.”

“Ah, how delightful. I am a medical student.”

“I am with Dr. Joseph Bell who is to give a series of lectures. Perhaps, you will attend his demonstrations in St. Petersburg. So, why were you in England?”

“We studied with Karl Marx in London. Our task is to teach the peasants and make them understand the tsar is not their ‘little father,’ but their oppressor.”

Before I could gather my wits to answer, a bulky fellow with red hair and beard pulled her aside and gave me a fierce scowl.

Dostoevsky raised his hand for silence. “Calm yourselves, please. The new tsar is more kind and generous. Revolution will only lead to anarchy and the death of us all. We must support all Slavs and bring peace to Russia.”

Vera Nayechev pulled me closer. “He is sick and old and should not speak like this. Nicholas I put him in prison and sentenced him to death, but at the last minute, he commuted the death sentence and sent him to Siberia. He should be anti-tsarist, but he has sympathy with our oppressors,” she said.

The author left after his speech. Vera, rather stealthily, rubbed the inside of my wrist with her hand. Was it just an absent Russian gesture or an invitation? While I dallied with Vera, I kept an eye on Penelope. She didn’t touch a drop of alcohol and remained in deep conversation with the Russians.

I had more vodka and dozed off but awakened when two white uniformed sailors placed a cauldron of beet soup and a platter of dark bread with a round of cheese on the table. Was it my imagination, or was there a whiff of that same sweetish odor that Dr. Bell thought was opium? Almost always, Bell is correct, but in this case, I thought he was definitely wrong. Yet, I could not place the odor. What was it?

The party broke up in the wee hours of the morning and I took Penelope to her room, expecting at least a long, goodnight kiss. Instead, she rather rudely pushed me away without even a friendly squeeze. Had I done something to offend her? Might she have been upset that I was sitting with Vera?